Remedy
by Shikijika
Summary: Old kink meme fill. Romano isn't even all that good at being a depressed alcoholic. Spain turns up and immediately makes it worse, because he's part of the problem. SpainxRomano.


This is an utterly ancient kink meme fic that I hadn't realised I'd never uploaded. So here it is. Enjoy my writing circa 2009.

* * *

Spain's noticed it now, and that only makes him drink more.

He ignores the raps on the door and blanches as the whisky – of course, he's run out of everything else now – burns his throat, scours his system from the inside out and lets him stay in this fuzzy pseudo-reality, silence scrunched in his ears and a black curtain pulled over his vision. He's not sure whether he's sitting on the floor or not. He might be, but he can't remember and the light hurts too much to check.

Shit, he forgot to lock the side door – Romano groans and pushes his head between his knees as the door clicks open and shut again, the sound rolling around his head and clattering against his skull. Or maybe that's something else. He doesn't know. Either way he's probably going to throw up soon.

"Didn't you hear the door?" Sodding motherfucking bastard. Never gets the hint.

"Th- that was the _point_," he mumbles, scowling and dragging his arms over his head at his slurred speech. Maybe he'd drank more than he'd thought. Probably. Definitely.

His fingers curl around the bottle again and this time he doesn't flinch at the searing sensation, his lips twitching in amusement at the expression he just knows is on Spain's face. Ha ha. Serves him right, pain in the ass-

"Romano."

The voice is right beside his ear, warm breath trickling uncomfortably over the shell and onto the sensitive skin behind it. He bites his lip and wishes Spain would go away already.

"Are you okay? You haven't been answering the phone."

Romano starts at this; his fingers curl tightly around the lip of the whisky bottle and his eyes peer warily over his knees. It's the drink, he tells himself, he was just this warm before. It's summer.

But he doesn't say anything, blearily staring at Spain's face – openly curious, forehead creased with... something. If it's pity he's going to punch his face in (not that you have the motor function competency to now, he reminds himself darkly).

Hands catch his and his breath catches in his throat for a single choked second before they pry his fingers away from the now-warm glass, the bottle falling loose and disappearing from his grip. "Aaa," he slurs in protest, making no movement to try and retrieve it. "Was using that, bastard."

"I noticed," Spain's words have a dry tone to them that Romano isn't used to hearing. "Why are you drinking that, anyway? Or drinking this much at all?"

Amber liquid sloshes around in the bottle as Spain shakes it and Romano feels sick again, squeezing his eyes shut and inhaling deeply through his nose. "S'easier. Makes it harder to... to... think."

"About?"

"Dunno. Stuff," he tries, very poorly, to avoid the question. Stupid bastard already knows, right?

He hears the quiet hiss of fabric as Spain shifts his position, echoing and staying in his head and why is he hearing everything, every flicker of breath, the swooping and sinking and churning of his stomach and he doesn't feel sick any more but it still hurts like all hell. He tugs at his hair and inhales deeply, trying to clear the fog in his head. Fuck fuck fuck.

"You're not going to tell me, are you."

It wasn't a question, but Romano hummed a yes.

Spain moves again and maybe he'll leave this time – this is such a pain in the ass, Spain's a pain in the ass; why is he even here, anyway – but of course he doesn't, because making things easier for the both of them has never been his style. He almost looks up, risks the possibilities swirling in his head; but warmth and that familiar childhood smell, all cloying and dizzying and so Spain it makes him shake, envelopes him and he almost wants to cry (but he won't).

Spain isn't even tipsy.

"Get off," he hisses after a long heavy silence, wishing he could just push the stupid bastard away and scream at him in furious Italian and headbutt him like he always does. "... Don't want a fucking hug."

"I know," Spain whispers into his neck. Too close. "But you won't hit me today."

He feels guilty and fucking stupid for feeling so damn guilty (it's not even his fault). "Could if I wanted. Bastard."

A sigh. "Of course that would be the only thing you'll say properly, huh?"

Romano can feel smooth pads of fingertips playing across his shoulders and back, slipping over soft lines of muscle and making him tremble into Spain's shoulder as they slide gently over the curve of his spine. He always does this, makes him feel so damn comfortable and on edge at the same time -

"It's... your fault," he looks up and the fingers stop as Spain's eyes meet his, wide in surprise. "S'always your fault. Too damn nice for your own fucking good."

"Ah?" Spain is clueless as usual (hit him hit him _hit him_). "What did I do?"

"Everything. Nothing. T- that's the problem – god dammit, stop looking at me like that – you don't _do_ anything and it's still all your fault -"

He is not going to cry. Red stains his cheeks and water pricks his eyes, just to be contrary. Look down, dammit.

"- So -"

"- No, dammit," Romano cuts him off and this time he really does hit him, noses bashing together awkwardly and fuck this; his lips pressed smooth against Spain's and he's really expecting nothing, a surprise second of contact before it stops and maybe, just maybe his dirty thoughts will leave him at peace. The ones of Spain kissing him back – touching him – warm hands tracing mindless patterns across his bare skin, lips brushing his chest, stomach, dipping lower and he really is disgusting, isn't he.

The knot in Romano's stomach has tightened, curling sickeningly as Spain falls forward onto his knees with a gentle thump against the carpet, fingertips laying a soft pressure on his hips, tongue sliding against his mouth. Ah, fuck. He's shaking, head in a dark heady spin but he opens his mouth a little, inhaling warm familiarity and hearing himself moan breathlessly – the hell...? - into Spain's mouth as they press closer and it's too hot, far too hot but he wants it that way; fire cleanses sin, after all.

"Romano," Spain whispers, breaking away for a second and looking way too serious; damn asshole can't read the situation to save himself, can he? Romano growls under his breath and pushes him over to the floor, trembling and somehow still crawling on top of him with surprising steadiness. He pins his wrists and grinds himself hard against Spain, watching as his head tilts back and he lets out a long breath.

He leans closer, pulling Spain's arms up higher so they rest next to his head, still straddling him and pressing his erection harder against the growing heat. "This is what you do to me, jackass," he hisses into his surprised face, feeling the sting at his eyes again. "I hate you. You make me want to – to – dammit, whatever -"

He kisses him again and his thoughts dry up, a vague buzz in his head as Spain grinds up against him and kisses him back, too; he's irritatingly gentle in both, and Romano listens to the desperate rhythm of denim shifting roughly against itself and the quiet noises from both of them and he really can't take much more of this, letting go of Spain's wrists and moving to the button on his jeans, undoing it eventually even while violently trembling and running his fingers across the waistband of his underwear before -

"Stop, Romano, please," Spain grabs him and rolls him off in a quick role-reversal and before he can shout at him for stopping right fucking there his eyes meet Spain's and they're dark, pupils dilated with arousal but also with something he doesn't want to see at all. "You're drunk. You're not thinking properly -"

"Asshole, don't you know anything?" Romano struggles fruitlessly against his former caretaker's powerful grip as traitorous tears spill down his cheeks, leaving wet trails in their wake. "I'm doing this because I want you – you stupid fuck, I'm drunk because it's your fault I can't do goddamn anything right, I can't even keep my faith properly because you fuck it up every single..."

He coughs and stops, biting the inside of his lip furiously to stop it from shaking and tasting traces of copper as he squeezes his eyes shut and tries to block everything out. Fuck, he's gone and done it now; he's ruined more or less the only stable friendship he ever had because he can't keep his mind away from depravity.

Spain brushes the hair from his face and kisses him on the temple, his tight hold on his wrists loosening. "Don't cry like that, Romano," he says quietly into his ear. "I don't think keeping that bottled up instead of telling me about it would make God any happier with you. He loves you no matter what you are, and I do too, okay?"

Romano opens his eyes, looks over at Spain's smiling face and feels his own crumpling again. "Shut the hell up, you don't know shit, got – got it?"

"Sure," Spain's laugh echoes across his head and he can't stop crying for some reason, although the knot is disappearing; he's pathetic, really. That's Spain's fault too, for being a shitty boss and a stupid tomato-bastard who thinks he knows everything. "Come on, bed."

He doesn't want to argue with him any more, though, he realises as Spain lifts him and carries him up the stairs. It's because he's wasted and sleepy and there's no point, he decides. He'd better be alone in his bed when he wakes up, though, or he's going to kick Spain's ass up and down Naples, dammit.


End file.
